


The Tired Centurion

by Arlome



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Ancient Rome, F/M, MFMM Flashfic Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:01:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22409122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arlome/pseuds/Arlome
Summary: He meets her at a tavern, of all places.
Relationships: Phryne Fisher/Jack Robinson
Comments: 28
Kudos: 73
Collections: Miss Fisher's Flashfic Challenge Heat 3





	The Tired Centurion

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so, confession time - this little scene will develop into a bigger fic I'm planning, so, chances are you're going to meet our characters again. For now, all you need to know is that Janus Robinius is Jack, Hustus Coeilius is Hugh and Phryne is still Phryne.
> 
> Hope you like this little thing!

He meets her at a tavern, of all places.

She’s standing over the fresh corpse of a common drunkard, her toga slipping enticingly off one slender shoulder, her raven locks crowning her head in an elaborate braid, and all he can think of is, _‘if this woman is a common tavern whore, I’m bloody Jove.’_

He’s rising from his table, leaving his food and his open-mouthed Optio behind, and makes his way through the boisterous tavern towards the lady in question, his face set in a dour scowl.

So much for his hopes for a hearty lunch.

The woman eyes him almost mischievously, her glance suggestive as it glides down his face and uniform. The smile on her painted lips is sharp and teasing, the kohl in her green eyes heavy and dark. He notices the way she holds herself, the confidence in her countenance. Her figure is slender, her alabaster skin soft and healthy; she’s a beautiful creature, no doubt, but it takes more than a pretty face to faze him.

But then she speaks.

“Hello,” she almost purrs, the timbre of her voice throaty and rich, like thick honey or heavy cream. “And who might you be?”

He finds himself so utterly shocked, so taken aback, at her complete nonchalance and lack of deference to his rank and position, that he promptly answers, “First Spear Centurion Janus Robinius, of the Twelfth.”

Her eyes light up and her smile widens; she’s obviously pleased with this little victory over him.

“Aren’t you a bit young for a First Spear, Centurion Robinius?” she asks almost coquettishly, and Janus finally snaps back to his senses.

“I’m older than I look,” he supplies dryly and notices with part annoyance, part secret admiration that his seemingly unimpressed reply is well received. “And who are you, Madam?”

The mystery woman draws herself to her full height, which isn’t much compared to his, and places her hands on her hips.

“I’m Terentia Pullia,” she lies smoothly, shrugging one exposed shoulder.

Behind him, Janus can hear his Optio, a promising lad by the name of Hustus Coelius, stumble in his haste to get to the strange scene.

“No, you’re not.” He says calmly, his head tilting slightly to the right. He’d eat his helmet if she’s who she says she is.

One look at the suspiciously dead body and another furtive glance at the grinning woman before him convince him that his helmet might be the only thing left for him to eat today. His stomach grumbles sympathetically.

“Brilliant!” the woman exclaims, and leans forward a little, her face getting almost uncomfortably close. “What gave me away?”

Janus looks at the soft, powdered arms, and glances at the clean fingernails on her elegant fingers.

“No tavern girl will have such soft, unblemished skin, Madam,” he surmises and frowns authoritatively. “Now, _real_ name, please.”

The woman’s eyes narrow speculatively, but she doesn’t move.

“You’re quite clever,” she decides, and finally takes a step backwards. “I’m _genuinely_ impressed – and let me tell you, it doesn’t happen often! Very well, then, Centurion; I’m Phryne of the Furii. _Pleasure_ to make your acquaintance.”

He should have known, of course. Just his bloody luck. Of all women in this Gods forsaken city, he just had to stumble upon the most eccentric of them all. He’d heard stories – _everybody_ did; the Patrician woman who won’t own slaves, the gracious lady who won’t marry. Very odd, very out of place, but still terribly sought after and highly respected by most.

_Apparently, that’s what happens when you’re filthy rich_ , he thinks unkindly, and immediately regrets it.

“As much as I am certain that your reasons for frequenting this…fine establishment make for a reverting tale,” Janus drawls, recovering from his little fit of guilt. He notices the lady’s eyes twinkle in amusement and stifles a groan, before continuing, “You’ll forgive me if I neglect to inquire after them, under the circumstances. Now, what have we here?”

Phryne of the Furii takes a deep breath, gearing up for battle. Janus has an odd premonition about being handed some grief in his immediate future.

“This man was murdered!” She declares, her arms akimbo, eyes shining excitedly. Janus recognises the symptoms; it’s the thrill of the chase, the exhilaration of pursuit. “Now, what are we going to do about it?”

Janus sighs and blinks slowly. Gods help him, the woman must be mad.

Perhaps he should consider making an offering to Fortuna, after all; surely, praying for better luck can’t hurt.


End file.
